Nine Steps to the Shed
Most every morning
it’s out the back door to step,
mug in one hand, curiosity in the other,
down to the first of nine
off-round uneven Caithness slabs
roughly the size and shape of mammoth’s footprints
that stomp across uneven, soggy grass
dividing house from shed,
And it’s true I feel myself following in the bulk
of something vast, patient, fissured —
the deep past, say, or the world yet undeclared —
on this short transition from one dwelling to another.
What’s down there today? A fresh splatter
from passing gull, faint stains of last week’s nosebleed,
the snail lurched sideways in its crunched house,
and something between an image and a phrase that earlier
fell on my bowed head in the shower:
plenty to be going on with!
